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Mother of the Blistering Dream What was your reason Sylvia, mother of the blistering dream? What case of stairs from a weeping roof caught you up in its sorrow, until your antique bones, lined like ghost coats, slept faithfully on the ground all spring? Was it some kind of wage for defeating a language that taunted you day and night? Was it a blare of swearing suicides, blue angel carriers with holes in their sides, that begged your persistent pauses for keys? |
Additional Notes:
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)
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